Implications
by Invader Tia
Summary: Drabble dump for Sherlock. Lots of Johnlock and a couple of other pairings, perhaps. Mostly fluffy stuff and sugary sweetness that might make non-Johnlockians puke. Rating may change as drabbles are added.
1. Nightmares

**Author's Note: Hello! I just thought I'd give my loyal fans(the three or four that I have) something to entertain them for the next few months while Playing With Fire is under reconstuction. **

**I just got into Sherlock this week, and I have to say, it's an amazing show. Really, it is. The writing is exquisite, the crimes are mind-blowing, and I honestly think that it has the best comedy and suspense of any Sherlock Holmes story to date. That, and the two main characters play big roles in other movies that I love(Benedict Cumberbatch- Khan in Star Trek:Into Darkness. Martin Freeman- Bilbo Baggins in The Hobbit: The Unexpected Adventure). **

**Yes, I have my shipping goggles on. O-O I see it, I ship it. **

**Anyway, these are just a collection of Johnlock drabbles, because I felt like it. It's a cute pairing. Get over it.**

**Sherlock is a BBC production, and obviously I'm American, so how can I own it? In other words, Sherlock ain't mine. **

=== DOOM ===

John was used to nightmares, though after he met Sherlock the flashing images of war and death that took over his mind at night had calmed down to an unpredictable basis. He could never figure out why the man, who was such an insufferable prick and the main source of John's daily stress, would be the cure for his night terrors. There was just something so reassuring about Sherlock Holmes, something that John just couldn't place; it felt like something that was right there, it should have been obvious, it stared him directly in the face and mocked him as he searched for its name.

The nightmares came back to a nightly basis after Sherlock's fall. Only now they weren't about the war.

Now they were about Sherlock.

Most often, in his dreams, John would see the world's only consulting detective lying dead on the concrete, his head smashed in by the force of the landing and scarlet blood everywhere, all over Sherlock and John's hands, those brilliant gray eyes staring up at John blankly, lifelessly.

Other times, not rarely but not common either, John would see other deaths of Sherlock, all the ideas that his mind had entertained, if even for a second, during their crime-solving adventures. Sherlock twitching on the floor of the school, face blanching with death, while the cabbie smiled triumphantly. Sherlock asphixiating as the Chinese smuggler's henchman strangled him with a red cloth. Sherlock being ripped to pieces by an enormous hound with bloody, glowing red eyes. Sherlock's charred body laying in the center of destruction as Moriarty's cold, high-pitched cackling filled the dusty air.

For three years, these images haunted John, to the point where he would sometimes see them during the day, if he kept his eyes closed for too long of a time. Even when Sherlock came back, John still had these dreams, though the shock of the man's return kept them at bay for the first few nights.

"No... no...!" John groaned in his sleep, tossing around ferociously. "No... Sherlock... please..."

He started to scream the man's name, and shrieked it one last time as he bolted out of bed, having woken up from the terrible ordeal his mind insisted on forcing him through. He was shaking, sweating, panting with terror and anger, anger at Sherlock for dying, for daring to leave John like this. And guilt began to course through him as the memory of helplessness gnawed at his heart.

For those few seconds, John had forgotten completely that Sherlock wasn't dead, that he was actually just below, a moment's stumbling down a short flight of stairs away. He sat on the edge of his bed and buried his face in his rough, sweaty hands, and he sobbed.

"John? John, are you all right? I heard you calling for me," Sherlock's deep, baritone voice asked through the door that John had securely locked. He waited impatiently for an answer. "John, what's going on?"

Sherlock heard, barely, the sound of soft whimpering, sniffling. John, crying? What for? Did he have another night terror? Sherlock thought that those had stopped...

A click told Sherlock that John had unlocked the door and he reached for the knob just as the door swung open. He was completely taken aback when John's arms flung themselves around him and held him to the veteran army doctor as close as was physically possible. John buried his face in Sherlock's chest, and the detective felt his body tremble as he cried into Sherlock's shirt.

"J-John...?" Sherlock almost interrupted the moment, but thought better of it.

For a while, they just stood there, John clinging to Sherlock like his life depended on it and Sherlock bemused at the situation. Eventually the doctor calmed down enough to get coherent words out.

"Sh-sherlock?" he asked, his voice sounding very young and frightful. "C-could I...erm... sl-sleep in y-your bed... tonight?"

Try as he might, Sherlock couldn't come up with a reason not to let John sleep in his room. He was sure there was at least one excuse, but his mind seemed to be failing him at figuring out what it was. "I suppose so," he said softly.

He steered John gently into his room, letting him sit cautiously on the bed and closing the door behind him.

They lay there in bed for a good half hour before Sherlock finally asked, because he had to be sure, he had to know he was right. "What was your nightmare about, and don't deny that you had one because it's obvious."

John's bloodshot eyes avoided Sherlock's almost calculatingly. It was something he was ashamed of, something he didn't want Sherlock to know. "You," he said in a voice that was less than a whisper.

Of course it was. The way he clung to Sherlock, the last three years of thinking, knowing, that his best friend was dead, and then the fact that John didn't cry when he had night terrors about his service. It really was obvious, as was what the dream was about- Sherlock's death, inevitably. And Sherlock did not hesitate to say all of this to John.

John didn't mind. It was comforting, actually, listening to Sherlock carry on and explain his every thought, his deductions that as first glance didn't make sense but once explained were perfectly logical. After so long, not hearing that soothingly deep voice in his ear, John reveled in every word Sherlock said, no matter how quickly they poured out of his mouth.

"Right, as always," John whispered when the detective was finished. He scooted ever slightly closer to Sherlock, wanting to feel his presense rather than see it. His eyes lifted to meet the gray ones that made his heart pound, if he weren't so terrified of Sherlock suddenly getting up and leaving John alone. "I missed you, Sherlock. I missed you so much..."

A finger on his lips shushed John, and Sherlock's soft hush echoed lightly in his ear. "It's fine, John. It's okay. I'm here now. I won't leave again."

John gave a hitched, hoarse laugh. "You'd better not, Sherlock Holmes."

He eventually fell back to sleep, but only when Sherlock's arms were around him, protecting him from the fears that made his entire body ache with sorrow, and for the first time in three years, John was able to rest in his sleep.

=== DOOM ===

**Yeah, angst. I'm pretty good at that, aren't I? **

**Anyway, hope you enjoyed. I like the implied, tense, fighting-not-to-show-it canon stuff. For some reason, I don't like the phrase "I love you" being said, at least by these two characters. Perhaps John would say them occasionally, but Sherlock would have to be drunk or desperate to say that to John... **

**In any case, review if you want. This is more of a dump than anything else. You get cookies if you do review, though, and I have a brand-new batch waiting in the oven. :D Chocolate chip. **


	2. Gay

**Author's Note: Bored. Concept came to me in a chat.**

**Sherlock belongs to BBC. **

=== DOOM ===

It took a while for John to figure it out- a whole year, in fact. He wasn't exactly Sherlock, after all. But once he pieced it together, John realized with a start that it was painfully obvious, stupidly obvious.

First there was Mrs. Hudson. She was a quick woman, often jumping to conclusions and being a bit clueless at times in her motherly ways. The first thing she had said when John first moved in was if they needed the secondary upstairs bedroom. John immediately caught on to what she was implying- that he and Sherlock were together, a couple.

Then Mycroft: "I'll be waiting for the happy announcement at the end of the week." At first, John was confused as to what Mycroft meant, because then he had thought that his best friend's brother was actually some sort of criminal mastermind. Later John assumed he had meant about Sherlock allowing John to be his assistant in his crime solving.

Angelo, though a slow-minded man in his eagerness to assist Sherlock fueled by gratitude, had called John Sherlock's "date", to which John corrected him by stating that he was not Sherlock's boyfriend or date, thank you very much.

Moriarty calling John a pet to Sherlock, though now that he thought about it, he wasn't entirely sure who Moriarty had intended to be the reciever of that statement.

Irene Adler, what an obnoxious woman to say so boldly and confidently that John was jealous, of _her_ no less. John had denied the accusation thoroughly, against his emotions.

It never occured to John until Sherlock's excessive apologizing, which was odd to say the least, during the Baskerville case that there was more behind these implications of John's non-existant homosexuality than what he originally thought was the result of bad timing and appearances.

Because even though John denied with every breath that he and Sherlock were not a couple, never had been... Sherlock didn't echo these denials. He never corrected Angelo, never told Mrs. Hudson that it was obvious John would need the second bedroom. There was nothing he could do about Mycroft, nor Irene, and John was sure that Sherlock was as confused about Moriarty's comment as he was.

The conversation in Angelo's restaraunt also wasn't exactly conspicuous: in fact, John even asked Sherlock of he had a girlfriend. His reply: "Not really my area." So John assumed, for a moment, that Sherlock's compass pointed the other direction and provided the alternate question, before adding a reassurance that John wasn't going to ridicule him if it was true.

"I know it's fine," Sherlock had said. John had thought that Sherlock was simply stating that homosexuality wasn't wrong, at least to him. They never spoke of the matter again, and it had drifted from John's mind until now.

Furthermore, all the people that brought it up at all were people that knew Sherlock well, friends(of a sort) and family. So, what if their comments said as much about Sherlock as they did about John?

And at last, John figured out the puzzle with a small, knowing smirk on his lips. Indeed, there was no other option, and once you rule out the impossible, whatever is left, however improbable, must be true.

"What?" Sherlock asked, bringing John out of his reverie.

_Well, this is a turn-around,_ John thought with a small chuckle. Usually it was Sherlock losing himself in thought and eventually being brought back to Earth by John asking him what it was he was thinking of.

"Hmm?" John asked.

"You were staring at me, and your eyes were unfocused: you were deep in thought. Then you smirked. You figured something out. What?" Sherlock asked once more, speaking rapid-fire as always.

"Why didn't you ever just tell me straight-out?" John returned. Sherlock frowned.

"Tell you what?"

"You're gay."

"I thought it was obvious."

"It was, once I thought about it. You're right, I need to think more."

"I am right, aren't I? I always am," Sherlock flashed a look of pride and arrogance that John knew so well, that surfaced usually when John praised him. "What took you so long to catch on?"

"Not sure. I suppose I was just too wrapped up in letting people know that we aren't a couple to realize that you never agreed with me or backed me up. And before you get any ideas, we are _not_ a couple."

Sherlock gave John an innocent smile, the kind that meant trouble.

"Of course not."

=== DOOM ===

**Lol John's slow mind is funny. Sherlock's suspiciousness is even funnier. Not exactly Johnlock but I liked the idea. **

**Reviews are welcome and rewarded. **


	3. Crashed

**Author's Note: Thought I'd give you guys a cute one with no angst. **

**Sherlock belongs to BBC. And John. ^_^**

=== DOOM ===

Sherlock had crashed on the couch. It wasn't uncommon, as Sherlock would go for days without proper sleep until he had exhausted his mind working on cases. He would wake starved, and that was the only time John knew that he would finish a meal.

Given this blessed time of calm, John turned on his laptop, not in the mood for telly tonight. He typed away on his blog, smiling as he added the details of Sherlock's eccentricies. There wasn't much to do after that, and John still didn't want to turn on the telly. Doing something so mindless after a case wasn't possible anymore, because Sherlock's words would reel in John's mind and make distractions irritating.

The doctor glanced at Sherlock on the couch. His breathing was quiet and steady. He didn't snore, thankfully, and he mumbled only occasionally. It was strange to see the detective in such a peaceful position, his eyes closed and his face blank. His arm dangled down from the cushion, his fingers brushing the floor.

The clock on the wall told John it was a little past midnight. Sighing, he got to his feet, pulling the aphgan from the back of his chair. He draped it over Sherlock, pulling the man's arm back up and resting it on his chest. Sherlock's head was lolled to rest on his right shoulder, his lips parted slightly as his jaw went slack with the lack of control. His eyelids didn't even flutter.

John wondered what Sherlock dreamt about. Did his dreams make sense, or were they even more confusing and random than a normal person's? Was John in them? Molly, Mrs. Hudson? Did Sherlock ever have nightmares? Did he escape to his mind palace in his sleep? Did he even dream at all?

It was hard to say anything without asking the man himself, and John wasn't about to be at the end of the possible fury that would result in waking Sherlock from the one good sleep he got a week.

Sherlock sighed in his sleep, shifting and sinking further down the couch so that the aphgan trailed up to just below his chin. John had to smile; Sherlock looked a bit like a small sleeping kitten. He ran his fingers through Sherlock's unruly curls once, twice, before leaning down and whispering in his ear.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

=== DOOM ===

**Super short. It's a drabble, get over it. **

**Reviews, please, love. **


	4. Fears

**Author's Note: Moar angst 'cause I'm in a bad mood and I feel like a Hurt/Comfort. Moar nightmares, because I had a nightmare last night. **

**Sherlock belongs to Steve Moffat. **

**Flamers will be murdered in cold blood because I am not in the mood to deal with that kind of bullshit.**

=== DOOM ===

_Sherlock shakes as he holds the gun, the barrel still directed at the man even though it had gone off long ago. A minute, perhaps, passes but it feels like so much longer. Finally, he swallows and lowers the gun, mostly due to his arm losing its strength in such a position. _

_Clapping echoes in the darkness. Sherock flinches at the sudden noise. There's a chuckle, low and sinister as it joins the slow, sharp claps. _

_"Very good, Sherlock. Very good." _

_Out of the shadows comes Jim. Something in Sherlock's head fuzzes out the memories associated with the man, but a lurching bout of fear grips his chest nonetheless. "Moriarty," he says in a rumbling whisper. _

_"But I'm not done with you. Not even close," Jim says in a low voice that sends terrible shivers down Sherlock's spine. The detective ignores his body to the best of his ability. _

_"Done with me?" Sherlock repeats, not understanding completely. _

_"Like I've said, I gave you a teeny-tiny glimpse as to what I'm doing. I have more people out there than you can hunt down." Jim's voice is a purr, a sweet, smooth rolling of syllables. It disgusts Sherlock. _

_"I'll be the judge of that," he snarls in response. _

_"Oh?" Jim gives a laugh. It's high and cold. "You think I can't keep track of my own system?" _

_"I think that you've underestimated me," Sherlock replies. _

_Jim smirks a bit. "You overestimate yourself," he taunts. _

_"I could shoot you now and end it all in an instant," Sherlock says. He raises the gun once more, aiming the barrel at Moriarty's head, between the eyes. Jim doesn't even blink. _

_"You can't kill me, Sherlock. I've taken care of that for you." _

_With a turn of his head, Jim exposes the huge, blood-mangled hole in the center of the back of his skull. _

_Sherlock's stomach drops, dread fills his veins. Memories flood his mind. Everything that happened- the cases, the game, the fall, the loneliness of four years away from the only friend Sherlock ever had. Tears fall rebelliously from Sherlock's eyes. _

_"Now, I'd keep talking, but everything I have to say has already been said," Jim teases. "I'll see you in hell, sexy." _

_There's a gunshot. Everything goes white in Sherlock's vision. _

The man gasped as he woke. Bile rose in his throat, and Sherlock had to sit up to force what little was in his stomach back into it.

His hands trembled, terror flowed through him, uncontrolled by his momentarily unconscious body. Sherlock didn't remember falling asleep. He glanced around the room to deduce, the only thing that might help.

He was in the sitting room, laying lengthways on the sofa. A blanket was wrapped around him, placed there by someone else. John, more likely than Mrs. Hudson, as Sherlock's landlady didn't visit past ten o'clock- it was nearly one in the morning, judging by the clock on the wall.

Sherlock had passed out after the last case. It had been a good, long case, too- a man had gone around London for a week, killing off people who had been charged with heinous crimes and then released for one reason or another. After six days without sleep, Sherlock's body had given in to its demands and slipped into slumber despite the man it belonged to.

He was sure in an hour or so, his stomach would be aching for food, but right now Sherlock felt nauseous from his dream- nightmare? Sherlock didn't have nightmares, not since he was eleven, and he'd deleted that dream long ago. Granted, the man did have odd dreams about John at his gravestone when he'd been away, destroying Moriarty's web one string at a time, but as sad as they were, none left him as this trembling, almost whimpering mess.

Not knowing what else to do, as the shaking was not going away, Sherlock got up and picked up his violin. He plucked a few strings, tuned it, and played a few disconnected notes.

There had been a point in John's life once that he didn't mind Sherlock composing in the middle of the night. After four years of silence, though, it was jarring and it woke John up immediately. For a time, the army doctor tried to ignore it, going as far as burying his head underneath his pillow in attempt to drown out the odd notes that reverberated throughout the flat.

Eventually he gave up and trudged down to the sitting room. "I thought you were sleeping," John said, disapproval and sleepy irritation dripping from his voice. The man was too sleepy to notice Sherlock giving a slight jump at the sudden sound of John's talking.

"I was. I woke up," the detective said shortly. He returned to his composition.

"Well, could you tone it down a bit or something?" John groaned, rubbing his eyes to focus them.

"No." Sherlock didn't stop playing.

"Play something you've already written, then. Just... please no composing this late at night. Not yet, I'm still..." John made a gesture to indicate he was settling down, getting used to having Sherlock back.

The man turned and looked at the shorter one. For an instant, Sherlock wanted to tell John about his dream, about the fear he felt whenever he thought of Moriarty. He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat.

"Fine." Sherlock flipped his notebook back a few pages and started playing a softer tune. It was almost sad, and it made John wonder about the tall detective before him.

"Sherlock? Why did you wake up?" he asked suddenly, catching himself off guard. "I mean, you were asleep when I went to bed. Completely out. A nuclear explosion wouldn't have woken you."

The detective didn't answer but continued to play. John frowned. "Sherlock," he said again, trying to catch the man's attention.

"Why do _you_ wake up in the middle of the night?" Sherlock replied without missing a note.

"Well, tonight it's because you're playing the violin at one-thirty in the morning," John replied snidely. Sherlock scoffed, displeased with John's snark. So the doctor huffed and tried again. "Because I have nightmares..." The realization hit him like a train at full speed.

Sherlock said nothing.

"What was it about?" _What in the world could scare Sherlock bloody Holmes so much he had a nightmare?_ John thought in awe.

"Moriarty, what else?"

"Sherlock. Come sit."

The man looked at John in surprise and some confusion. "Sit down with me and tell me what happened," John insisted, sitting on the sofa himself. "It'll help," he added when Sherlock made no move to join him on the couch.

"Help what?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Whatever's making you play the violin this late the night after a big case," John replied.

Sherlock bit the inside of his lip. His hand twitched, and his violin squeaked at the too-sharp movement. He looked at John, pleading with his eyes to leave it be, not to ask any further. The doctor made no such implication.

Sighing, the detective put his violin down reluctantly and plopped on the sofa moodily. John crossed his arms, waiting patiently. Sherlock swallowed once more and rubbed at his face with his still slightly quivering hands.

"You said Moriarty was there," John began for him.

"Yes. He was there. He was talking to me."

From there, Sherlock let the memory flow, repeating everything he remembered. He felt the shame build up on his cheeks as he recanted like a young frightened child, but when he finished he was surprised at how much better he felt. A weight that he hadn't realized was there slowly lifted from his chest as he spoke.

John hummed in thought. "I'm not an expert, obviously, but I'd say that you're worried about Moriarty coming back," he said quietly, almost to himself.

"It's irrational, of course. He's dead, been dead for four years. Why should I be so worried after all this time?" Sherlock asked. As he said it, the answer popped into his head, but he daren't speak it aloud. Not to John.

_Because he tried to kill the ones I care about the most, and the one I love._

"You're human?" John tried. "People have irrational fears. Harry's a fully-grown woman and she's terrified of spiders."

"Spiders?"

"Yeah, I don't understand it, either."

They were both quiet for a moment, and then they started sniggering. Sherlock felt the tension lift from the moment, evaporate into nothing. It was nice, one of the first nice moments they'd had in a long time.

John yawned. "Well, I should go to bed. Gotta get up in five hours to the clinic." They both stood.

Out of nowhere, Sherlock hugged John, holding him close to his chest. John made a shocked sound and stood awkwardly as Sherlock held him. "Good night, John," Sherlock said in a deep, troubled rumble of a whisper.

He let go of John abruptly and folded his hands neatly behind his back. John blinked at him, reading the look on the taller man's face. It reminded him of a young child who was afraid to interrupt an adult and ask permission for something.

"What is it now?" he asked, almost exasperated with Sherlock's antics.

"Hmm? Oh. Nothing, nothing. Just, er... go to bed, John. Get some sleep." Sherlock's cheeks turned a pink color and he walked away, heading in the direction of his bedroom. He shut his door a bit loudly, making his point.

John, still confused as ever, climbed the short stairwell to his bedroom and collapsed on his bed.

=== DOOM ===

**That was longer than I expected it to be. **

**Lots of almost-fluff. Not quite Johnlock, but I'm playing with it for now. I like to torment the characters I write for some ungodly reason. **

**Reviews?**


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